


what's left of you

by gingerbread man (xphantomhive)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: aside from john and condy everyone else is only mentioned, but what if, partially canon accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 12:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6005170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xphantomhive/pseuds/gingerbread%20man
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your heart is a hollow, but you know this boy. He is your John, and you've already killed him once before; you don't plan on doing it again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what's left of you

**Author's Note:**

> in which xphantomhive turns their "what if" into a oneshot.

You graze your fingertips over the tines of your trident and grin.

It’s foolish of these children, to assume they can defeat _you._ You, Her Imperious Condescension, a goddess among mortals. And what do the children think they are, really? Gods? They may be gods, but they’re small gods. Tiny and insignificant, barely leaving an imprint where you’ve already left millions of marks. Big marks, small marks. You are The Condescension, Condy, Her Imperious Condescension, the leader of this putrid little world and these miniscule children who think that they’ll be able to bring you down by sheer will alone. It’s almost laughable.

The ones who come to fight you aren’t the ones you remember. You remember a group of four, two who resembled the offspring of the children you’d raised years, decades, eons ago. Their leader had been a blonde male, cocky in all the best ways, witty and intelligent at all the correct moments. You’d seen him as the stitches in their dreary little party, and you’d admired that you’d have the capability to fight him in this final battle. But he isn’t here.

You roam your eyes over the four children floating before you. If memory serves, you do believe one of them _is_ from the other group; the spiky-haired blonde girl in a hideous blue outfit. There’s another that looks almost identical to her, aside from her hair, eyes, and outfit. Then there is one of your species, a young lady who looks like she’d be absolutely lovely to spend time with if it weren’t your job to kill her in order to keep yourself alive.

The final one is a boy, and once you’ve finally gotten a good look at him, your breath catches and your heart palpitates. Could it be? He’s short, extremely so, with a mess of black hair and radiant blue eyes. His skin is pale and he’s got a few freckles over the bridge of his nose and right below his glasses, and his lips are set into a scowl but you can only remember him smiling. Smiling at _you_ , picking flowers the same color as his eyes from the garden, throwing them over you and shouting, “Flower shower!” and then giggling over the fact that it had rhymed.

You remember kissing his boo-boos, holding him when he cried, checking for monsters under his bed, teaching him how to bake though he’d been less than compliant, showing him the proper way to ride a bike. You remember your heart swelling when he’d told you he’d been asked to start professional stand-up, and you remember it falling when he told you it meant he’d have to move to New York. You remember how he called you every night, eight pm sharp, to tell you he loved you and how he was and how his boyfriend Dave was doing in his movie career.

You remember the last time you’d seen him. He’d looked so happy, content, with his husband and his daughter with eyes the color of his and golden blonde hair. “John?” You force out through a closing throat, and there are fuchsia tears welling in your dark eyes. There’s no possible way this could be him. Your John, he was...he was much, much older. He’d be dead by now.

He’d be dead by now, and it would be your fault.

“How do you know my name?” He snaps out, and you feel the wind around you grow harsh and forceful. Your hair rustles in the breeze. It seems to be affecting no one but you, and you suppose that’s the point; this boy must have control of the wind. Perhaps that’s what the small, barely noticeable mark on his blue shirt means. “How do you know me?” The wind grows stronger yet.

 _You’re my son_ , you want to try. But this boy isn’t your son, he’d never remember. He’d never remember all that you’d done for him, or the way you’d held his cold, lifeless body in your arms and cried fuchsia tears until you could no more. “How’s your boyfriend?” You divulge, because it’s the first thing you’d always asked him on the phone when he’d called you to ask how you’d been doing, if you needed him home for anything.

His brows furrow. “Dave?” He asks lowly, and your heart clenches. Could it be? Maybe, in some depth of his mind, he remembers you. The talks you’d have every night, even if he was sick and could barely force himself out of bed to use the restroom. He may even remember that he loved you, that he called you _mom_ , because you raised him from the time he was born until he was old enough to fend for himself. And even then, he knew you were always there for him. That you’d always be there for him. That you’d love him to the ends of the earth. “How do you know about Dave? You’re just the enemy, you shouldn’t know things like that.”

Your soul is promptly crushed, but you refuse to let it show. “Boy, don’t you know that all supervillains do their research? I know exactly what makes you tick,” like when people tell jokes wrong, or when someone insults your boyfriend, or when someone executes a prank wrong, or when someone bakes you a cake for your birthday, “Of course I know shit about your dumbass, dickhead of a boyfriend.”

You actually think Dave is a very nice boy. You always did. Past the shades and the stoicness and the irony, he was sweet and caring, and he’d loved your John like no one else ever had.

There’s a switch in this John’s features, the one that isn’t yours, the one that looks so much like yours that it _hurts._ You know you’ve upset him, pushed him beyond the point of return, because if he’s anything like your John his Dave means everything and more to him. “I’ll kill you!”

He charges, and the three girls follow. You don’t even raise your trident. You’ve kissed his boo-boos better, took him to the hospital when he broke his leg falling off of the monkey bars in third grade, held him when he cried, held him when he was cold and lifeless.

You won’t be responsible for his death for a second time.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked this. i've been meaning to get it out of my system for a while now, but i continually forgot. this is definitely one of my favorite what ifs that i've ever dreamed up. because seriously, what if condy can't bring herself to kill john because she remembers raising him in the alpha timeline?
> 
> yeah.


End file.
